Within the book and volume of thy brain.
Nothing can seem foul to those who win.
Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving.
one pain is cured by another. catch some new infection in your eye and the poison of the old one would die.
Go, bid the soldiers shoot.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. . . .